“Wear yellow or pink occasionally,” he said with a brief, awkward laugh.

What large, honest eyes the creature had, like a fine retriever’s or those of some nice animal one saw in the Zoo!

“I will wear anything you like,” she said, the nice eyes meeting his, not the least stupidly, he reflected, though women who were affectionate often looked stupid.  “I will do anything you like; you don’t know what you have done for me, Lord Walderhurst.”

They moved a trifle nearer to each other, this inarticulate pair.  He dropped his eyeglass and patted her shoulder.

“Say ‘Walderhurst’ or ’James’—­or—­or ‘my dear,’” he said.  “We are going to be married, you know.”  And he found himself going to the length of kissing her cheek with some warmth.

“I sometimes wish,” she said feelingly, “that it was the fashion to say ‘my lord’ as Lady Castlewood used to do in ‘Esmond.’  I always thought it nice.”

“Women are not so respectful to their husbands in these days,” he answered, with his short laugh.  “And men are not so dignified.”

“Lord Castlewood was not very dignified, was he?”

He chuckled a little.

“No.  But his rank was, in the reign of Queen Anne.  These are democratic days.  I’ll call you ‘my lady’ if you like.”

“Oh!  No—­no!” with fervour, “I wasn’t thinking of anything like that.”

“I know you were not,” he reassured her.  “You are not that kind of woman.”

“Oh! how could I be?”

“You couldn’t,” good-naturedly.  “That’s why I like you.”

Then he began to tell her his reason for calling at this particular hour.  He came to prepare her for a visit from the Osborns, who had actually just returned from India.  Captain Osborn had chosen, or chance had chosen for him, this particular time for a long leave.  As soon as she heard the name of Osborn, Emily’s heart beat a little quickly.  She had naturally learned a good deal of detail from Lady Maria since her engagement.  Alec Osborn was the man who, since Lord Walderhurst’s becoming a widower, had lived in the gradually strengthening belief that the chances were that it would be his enormous luck to inherit the title and estates of the present Marquis of Walderhurst.  He was not a very near relation, but he was the next of kin.  He was a young man and a strong one, and Walderhurst was fifty-four and could not be called robust.  His medical man did not consider him a particularly good life, though he was not often ill.

“He’s not the kind of chap who lives to be a hundred and fifty.  I’ll say that for him,” Alec Osborn had said at mess after dinner had made him careless of speech, and he had grinned not too pleasantly when he uttered the words.  “The only thing that would completely wipe my eye isn’t as likely to happen to him as to most men.  He’s unsentimental and level headed, and doesn’t like marriage.  You can imagine how he’s chivied by women.  A fellow in his position couldn’t be let alone.  But he doesn’t like marriage, and he’s a man who knows jolly well what he likes and what he doesn’t.  The only child died, and if he doesn’t marry again, I’m in a safe place.  Good Lord! the difference it would make!” and his grin extended itself.